Marshmallow Memories

The world has changed a lot since those long summer days spent chasing friends around town on the much too large blue Schwinn Continental inherited from my mother. We didn’t know the difference between a girl's and a boy's bike. All we knew was the difference having a bike made. Even if that bike was twenty years old and intended for someone twice my height. Nowadays children have more to worry about than running behind their friends because of a flat tire or a broken chain. It was either pound your feet and keep up or be left behind and miss out until someone came home to repair your steed.

Those long-gone simple summer days would condensate into cool nights spent around a fire in the backyard. Dad would start splitting wood and moving the collection of mismatched plastic chairs to surround the old converted dryer drum. By the time the sun decided that we had had enough and started to turn in, family would begin to arrive as if summoned. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who had been caught up in the commotion of summer and forgot to go home. Neighbors would appear in their yards, some hanging over the fence hoping for an invite. Others didn’t wait, like the Simmons from across the street. They would appear at the first sign of smoke, hungry and hopeful.

The fire was lit and the radio crackled along with the oldies. Len would produce a guitar once the night set in. Adults would sing along while sipping apple juice from the brown bottles that grown-ups liked to drink from. Trays of nibblers would appear on the handmade wooden table, a feast of salt and sugar. Potato chips, wieners, chocolate bars, pop, and the venerable ruler of summer itself, the marshmallow.

Nights were measured in marshmallows and tummy aches. Adults would let the fire die down and roast the sugary treats over orange coals until they were a crispy golden brown. More fun-loving folk would probe their sticks into the high-kicking flames igniting the impaled marshmallow. They would watch the flame travel across the surface consuming the white innocence of the marshmallow planet. The black charred skin removed and poked into an eager mouth, revealing the planet’s gooey center. How I miss those long-gone sticky nights.

Now supper is finished and my wife and kids are clearing the table and singing a song a puppet taught them. I have the paper crumpled and the old plastic milk crate half-filled with splits. The old radio has been replaced with a music streaming service and a blue-tooth speaker. Neighbors will draw their curtains instead of being drawn outside. They won’t be sending their children over for a bit of fun, all they see is burned fingers and too much junk food. They share a fear that someone will fall into the fire. So I leave the worrywarts and scaredy cats alone and let them enjoy the safety of their living rooms.

The old wooden table is dragged out of the garage and buried in bottles and trays of food to be roasted or nibbled on while roasting. To the left of the potato chips, behind the sauces and napkins, is the plastic bag with one corner torn open. The bag of marshmallows. No aunts and uncles are coming, and the cousins have long since moved away. There are no kids in the neighborhood who would be allowed out this late. So I light my fire and hope my kids will turn off their toys and join me outside. I shove the end of a sharpened stick through one of those white fluffy planets and introduce it to the flames. I watch the surface turn black and conceal the gooey center, thinking of the good old days.